There are many journeys that i have enjoyed,
some across the country and some very local,
on highways, gravel and pugdundees,
on car, bus, cycle and on foot,
through deserts, forests and cities.
Yet every time i begin to write,
a sense of inadequacy envelopes me.
I often wonder, how is it that others manage,
to write with such fluidity.
It seems as if the strokes of their pens,
are guided by a river’s soul,
meandering through the rough terrain of paper,
creating valleys and silt bowls.
Fertile with thoughts and figures,
teeming with life like the river.
They continue to write more,
telling stories and legends of yore.
And flooded with thoughts of inadequacy,
I dive in again,
searching for meaning, outside.
“Against the cold winter pane,
i pressed my cheeks to feel the chill outside.
It felt no cold, no chill, no sting,
Just the agony of your lost warm presence.”
“You’re there, on the grass.
Freshly mown, it smells.
The sun is near, the horizon clear.
The sky speaking as the clouds swell.
You’re dressed in cream, and black and white.
Staring ahead, into infinity.
You twirl that twig between your fingers.
The balloons head up, to kiss the sky.
Of shades of white, small and big.
They race above, the tiny house.
Struggling to be freed from bonds of threads.
They fly away, on your command.
And as they rise, through dust and smoke.
Escaping your eye’s boundaries.
I arrive, with a set of blues, releasing them to infinity.”
So, I wrote this piece after a friend shared her dream from the previous night with me. Tried doing justice to her description, hope you like it.
“I had just advanced from reading about separation, politics and family feuds in Pakistan to a much celebrated travelogue across South America.
Still stuck in transition between the two worlds, i raised my head to see a young kid in white kurta payjamas, sporting this strange headgear including a black cap with the moon and a star and shreds of green.
He looked up to my head gear as i looked up to his and that one strange moment had magic in it, magic with the strangest of essence. I was still lost in transition, reality pinched me a bit too hard.”
It is strange how the universe brings together things that will astound you and make you believe, no matter how hard you try not to. Written on a train journey one late spring night when the wintery chill in the air still lingered.
“I miss my tenses at times, going stray with my identification of 1st, 2nd and 3rd person when i speak/write, but that is only a result of switching between the two worlds, one real and the other more real than the real world. I’m gone and i can feel it, i’ll be on the other side of where you are, real or real?”